She raised her reading glasses and tilted her head with a look both shy and flirtatious before offering a hand with nails painted bright fuchsia. Perhaps fifty, attractive and voluptuous in a tight sweater, she asked where I was from in a throaty whisper and, when I said New York City, said she’d never been but wanted to go. In my best Italian, I said I would happily show her around if she did. She smiled, then cast a look toward the outer office and whispered an apology if “Mussolini” had given me a hard time. She said her name was Chiara, and she was there to assist me in any way, then angled her chin toward the desk beside hers, “Beatrice,” she said, “il mio assistente.” The young woman, in her twenties, thick glasses and a loose sweater, looked up, ticked a nervous smile, then quickly returned to her work.
Chiara handed me a request form, which I filled out exactly as Quattrocchi had instructed: Guggliermo, High Renaissance Masters. She studied it a moment, then handed it to Riccardo, who gripped a metal book caddy beside her desk and disappeared into a back room while Chiara interviewed me: Had I been to Italy before? Did I have friends or family here? How long did I intend to stay? Then she told me to have a seat at the long table—anywhere I’d like—and watched me as I chose a spot facing her though on the far side and at the far end. I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted as much privacy as possible.
I tried to get comfortable but could not relax, anxious to see if the journal actually existed.
Two men came in and took seats at the other end of the table, both in their midthirties, both wearing glasses, one with a close-cropped beard, the other with a mustache, a goatee, and a ponytail.
While I waited, I got my laptop out and plugged the charger into one of the outlets on the tabletop. I sat back, drummed my nails, and immediately stopped, the sound echoing, everyone in the room staring at me. I offered an apologetic smile, then closed my eyes and pictured the altar in my Bowery studio, the years of accumulated inquiry concerning my great-grandfather’s theft, all the theories without conclusions, all the questions without answers.
I heard the book caddy’s metal wheels and opened my eyes to see a long, flat white carton, Riccardo wheeling it toward me. He placed it on the desk, then wheeled the caddy away.
I stared at it a moment. Touched it as if to be sure it was real. Then raised the lid.
Inside, a stack of manila folders, each identified with neat hand-lettering: High Renaissance in Florence, Early Renaissance in Siena, Notes on Mannerism. It was clear Guggliermo was a very organized man. I plucked one out, then two, then three, then four, the stack growing. It was a few more before I saw it: a blue notebook wrapped and tied with coarse twine.
I sucked in a breath and cadged a look at the front desk: Chiara going through papers, Beatrice sorting index cards; then at the two men, both with open books, both typing on their laptops.
I placed the carton’s lid on one of the wooden book holders the library provided, using it as a kind of shield, around that a few stacks of folders to create a little fort though I took pains to make it look unintentional. Then, I took the notebook out of the carton and untied the string. The cover looked worn, and I raised it carefully. The paper was unlined, slightly yellowed.
At the bottom of the first page, a signature, in pencil, small and neat: Vincenzo Peruggia.
I reached for my backpack to retrieve the sample I had xeroxed from the back of the mug shot and brought with me.
I held it beside the journal page and compared the writing. It was identical.
Below Peruggia’s signature in the same tiny script was one line: La mia storia.
5
21 dicembre 1914
Murate Prison, Firenze, Italia
Non ho dormito in molte notti…
I have not slept in many nights.
The mattress is thin. With every turn I feel the stone floor below. The cell is freezing. The plaster walls damp. The prison unheated. My blanket is threadbare and scratchy. I pace to keep warm. I count my steps. One foot in front of the other. Six steps one way. Nine the other.
There is no sink. No toilet. Once a week we are permitted a cold shower. There is one barred window. But not really a window at all. It looks into a narrow corridor where the guards spy on us. The only relief is our daily exercise in the courtyard. A place the sun dares not shine.
I think of my trial and feel shame. I argued with the judge and prosecutor and my own lawyer. I played the madman. The victim. The so-called patriot. But I am no patriot.
My sentence was fair. One year and three months. I deserved worse.
Every day I receive gifts. Cigarettes. Wine. Food. Letters from women who say they love me! But the only gift of value is the notepad and pencils given to me by a guard who took pity on me. If Simone could see me now would she think me a fool? In prison while those two scoundrels go free. I think of them day and night. Of getting what I am owed. Of getting even.
I try not to shiver as I write. To hold the pencil firm.
I close my eyes and imagine our apartment on rue Ramponneau. I see myself walking up the old wooden stairs and opening the front door. Simone greets me. I feel such sadness and such longing my eyes fill with tears.
But I need to think how to begin. How to explain how everything in my life went wrong.
I would say it began with good news.
6
December 1910
Paris
“Oh, Vincent, Vincent, I am so happy.” Simone twirled around the bed, a mattress on the floor covered with two tattered woolen blankets on top of which lay three embroidered pillows she had bargained for at the sprawling marketplace of Les Halles. And she had done well, her eye sharp, always looking for inexpensive ways to brighten their dreary flat. Her thick blond hair whipped around her perfect oval face, her eyes glittering.
Vincent watched her spin, feeling something open up inside him, always surprised that this intelligent, delicate beauty had settled for him when she could have had any man in Paris. Her black smock-dress, the only concession she made to her current condition, billowed out, exposing an inch of white petticoat and tightly laced ankle boots, three years old, though on Simone, everything looked fashionable. Above them, coarse black leggings she wore both inside and out, their sixth-floor walk-up frigid, December in Paris as bleak and gray as some Siberian outpost.
Simone tugged at Vincent’s jacket playfully. “I insist on your happiness!” she said, twirling again, then stopping to catch her breath.
Vincent got an arm around her waist, but she pressed her hand against his chest and took a step back as if to say, You needn’t hold on to me, I won’t topple, though he kept his hand in place.
“I am fine,” she said.
“Rest, my darling, please.”
“No,” she said, her naturally red lips in a pout. “I am fine.” Then, painting on a smile, she said, “This exhibition, it is what you have wanted, dreamed of.”
“Yes,” he said, trying hard to feel excited though there was a knot in his chest where there should have been release.
“Le Salon de la Nationale!” Simone’s voice filled with pride. “The twentieth anniversaire, bigger and more important than ever, the best of Parisian art! I hear Rodin will be exhibiting. Imagine, Vincent, your paintings beside Rodin’s masterful bronzes!”
He nodded, allowing himself to feel just a bit of pride.
“Oh, Vincent, this is so wonderful,” she said, her breathing still a bit labored.
“Sit, Simone, please.”
“It was just my silly twirling. I am perfectly fine.”
Vincent kept an eye on her as he opened a tin of La Paz, shook some of the tobacco into a paper, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger to create a thin cylinder. Looking at the cigarette reminded him of Paul Cézanne’s words about seeing in nature the cone, sphere, and cylinder, words that Picasso and Braque, even his old friend Max Jacob, had taken t
o heart. Vincent frowned as he stuck the cigarette into his mouth. “The cubists—” he said, spitting the word.
“Oh, please, Vincent, not now.” Simone gave him a severe look. “You must be happy. I insist upon it!”
He sighed, trying hard to take in the fact that two of his paintings would be included in the largest exhibition of the Paris season. “The fire, has it gone out?” he said, changing the subject, quickly heading into the only other room, one that Simone had transformed into another world, painting green vines and ivy from floor to ceiling in the style of a Chinese scroll. Miss Stein had called it droll and entertaining when she came for tea, though she had assumed it was Vincent’s work; she rarely spoke to Simone, who, on their last visit to Miss Stein’s 27 rue de Fleurus salon, had been relegated to her frightening, hook-nosed companion, Miss Toklas, the one who always talked to the wives. That visit had been almost a year ago. Their usual outings to galleries and ateliers had become less and less frequent as Vincent became more and more taciturn, even bitter, though Simone hoped this exhibition would change that.
She stopped Vincent from adding another log to the stove. “Do not waste the wood,” she said. “Let’s go out. We need to celebrate!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.
He wanted to say And where will we get the money? His meager salary was spent on books and art supplies, the rest tucked away in a small nest egg for the baby.
Simone stamped her foot. “We are celebrating and that is that! You will not argue with me today, Monsieur Peruggia!”
“I am not arguing,” he said, and how could he? Simone, who never complained, not about the cold, nor the shared bathroom in the hall, nor the lack of money. He had not provided her with much. How could he deprive her of a small celebration?
He looked into her lovely face, fuller than usual from pregnancy, and managed a smile. He was to be a father, something he had never imagined. Still, he worried. Simone had a history of frailty and illness that attacked her lungs, persistent colds and coughs that lingered, a bout with pneumonia last winter. Though right now, she glowed.
“All right,” he said, stepping in between stacks of books, many dog-eared and scribbled with notes, his life-long quest to overcome his lack of formal education. “I have something to tell you about what I was doing today at the Louvre.”
“Tell me,” she said.
“Not yet,” he said, teasing. “At supper.”
In minutes, Simone had pinned her hair up under a cloche hat, then tugged on a heavy sweater, the wool stretching over her newly expanded frame.
“Come,” she said, extending her delicate hand.
Outside, Vincent wrapped his arm around Simone’s shoulder, and she tucked herself into his side. He felt proud. And a little hopeful. Perhaps this exhibition would bring him the sales they so desperately needed. Yes, he said to himself, things will get better. He watched Simone slide her hands inside her sweater and rest them on her swollen belly. He could not believe they would soon be having a child.
They made their way across the Canal Saint-Martin. “Built by Napoleon,” he said, his head crammed with the many facts he had read. Then, along the hilly rue de Belleville where they stopped for a view of the city below, the mix of gaslights and the new electric lights like incandescent fireflies.
“It is always so beautiful,” Simone said, her breath generating white clouds as she spoke.
Vincent said nothing; Paris was neither his home nor his city. He had never felt welcomed here, always an outsider, except with Simone.
Once they left their poor, bohemian neighborhood, the smell of slightly soured goat’s milk and garbage was exchanged for clean, cold air tinged with the aroma of chestnuts sold on corners in little paper bags that Vincent sometimes brought home, washed down with cold white wine, and called dinner.
When Simone grew tired, they took one of the new motorized omnibuses to the Place des Vosges, with its fine homes and mansions, which Vincent pointed out had once played host to Cardinal Richelieu, Victor Hugo, courtesans, and queens. One day, he thought, he would buy them a grand house like one of these. Simone deserved it, this woman whom he loved beyond description.
At the rue de Rivoli, there was traffic—the new motorcars and taxis overtaking the horse-drawn coaches—and they got off the omnibus to walk along the river where it was quieter. The trees were bare, gray trunks, spindly branches. A tugboat dragged a barge along the water, a swarm of seabirds above, squawking. The wind picked up, rustling Vincent’s thick black hair and lifting Simone’s wide skirt, which she struggled to keep down.
“Are you warm enough, my darling?” Vincent asked, always worried about her delicate health.
“Yes,” she said. “I am wonderful!” Simone got her skirt in place and smiled up at him.
He knew she would not admit she was cold and ruin their time out together. He offered her one of his rare smiles and kissed her forehead.
They kept walking, debating where they might eat. Simone suggested one café; Vincent countered with another, cheaper one. Then suddenly he said, “We will eat at La Pêche Miraculeuse!”
“What?” Simone stopped walking and turned to face him. “Am I really with Vincenzo Peruggia, the man who complains of having no money from the moment he rises until the moment he sleeps?”
“I never sleep,” he said, which was true, but he laughed, and Simone did too. “It is a celebration, a splurge, and we shall do it!” With his arm wrapped more tightly around her, they passed the statue of Henri Quatre where the Île de la Cité came to a sharp point and into the small park at the river’s edge. Just beyond, a tugboat blasted curls of smoke into the sky, everything gray, black, and white like a painting by Edouard Manet, whom Simone had come to admire and even emulate in her paintings.
Just beyond the park was the restaurant with its view over the Seine.
Inside, a din of chatter and clatter, the smell of seafood mixing with cigarettes.
“Oysters,” Vincent proclaimed as soon as they’d been seated at a table beside a window, which he had insisted upon. “And a bottle of your finest Muscadet.”
The waiter arched an eyebrow.
“Is there a problem?” Vincent asked, glowering and smoothing his threadbare jacket.
“No, monsieur,” the waiter said and darted away.
“Did you see the way he looked at me? As if I did not belong here, as if I am an alien, a criminal!”
“Hush,” Simone said. “Do not spoil this. It was nothing.”
“Nothing? He looked at me as if I were some beggar come to rob his fancy restaurant.”
“Vincent, please, not now.”
Vincent lowered his head, humbled.
Simone lifted his chin with her delicate hand. “I am here with the smartest, handsomest man in the room.”
“Smartest?”
“Who reads and studies more than you?” she asked. “Though I see you do not dispute handsomest!” she said. “And soon to be the most successful!”
Vincent could not help but smile.
When the oysters came, Vincent and Simone squeezed lemon on them and ate slowly, sipping salty water from the shells. They finished the bottle of wine and Vincent, possibly a little drunk, ordered a second bottle to drink with the pommes de terre à l’huile, potatoes cooked in oil with warm, crusty bread for dipping.
“What is it you wanted to tell me,” Simone asked, “about your work today?”
“Well, you know Gaston Ticolat, that bastard who rules our conservation department like a tyrant, always calling me ‘Immigrant,’ bossing me around, ordering me to do this, do that—” He took a deep breath. “Never mind that. What I want to tell you is what he assigned me to do, to fit paintings with glass.”
“Paintings under glass? But it will make them impossible to see, the glare—”
“Perhaps, but the museum has decided they
must protect their masterpieces. Though again, that is not the point. The point is which paintings will now have glass, and which painting, just today, I was working on.”
Simone leaned across the table, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes, turning them gold. “Which one?”
Vincent held the moment. He enjoyed the expectant look on his beloved’s face. “Guess,” he said, smiling broadly, such a rarity that Simone played along, tapping a finger against her lips.
“Courbet’s Allegory.”
“No, no, that painting is too large for any glass, and you know that,” he said, the smile gone, his lazy right eye appearing even smaller when he frowned.
“Oh, don’t look like that,” Simone said.
It made him feel bad that he had so little patience with this extraordinary woman, but he wanted his story to match the thrill he had felt, and he wanted to impress her. “One more guess.”
“That ghastly Titian in the Salon Carré?”
“No, but you are warm.”
“Tell me!” Simone reached across the table and gave his arm a playful slap.
“None other than Leonardo’s lady.”
“No!” Simone’s eyes widened “It cannot be!”
“Yes! I held her in my hands.”
“The Mona Lisa? You are lying!”
“I had her this close to my face.” Vincent indicated a fraction of an inch with his fingers. “I could see every detail—the mountains and paths, the fine brushwork of her hair, even the cracks in the glazed surface.”
Simone’s eyes widened further. “What was it like, Vincent? How did you feel?”
The question took him by surprise. What had he felt? Thrilled? Yes. Excited? Absolutely. Though months later, he would tell himself that at the moment what he had felt was envy—that Leonardo had created something he could never make, something perfect in every way—and that he wanted to remove it from the world forever.
The Last Mona Lisa Page 3
